Ten Thousand Yards
by MadRabbit
Summary: ...and the two-minute drill with which we cross them. Eyeshield is a wealth of beautiful things, inadequately expressed here in a series of one-shots. 8: Define Potential—Shogun brings out the best in Shin, then asks for better. Shin obliges. Family/team feelings
1. Juumonji: Crash Course

Crash Course—The first time the fatty teaches Kazuki a lineman's stance, he feels like a goddamn idiot.

A/N: Referring to Juumonji as Kazuki here because it's third-person but from his point of view. The phrasing is his, and since I assume he thinks of himself as Kazuki, so he is. Sorry if it's jarring. :)

* * *

Kazuki's really starting to hate this red jersey. He's had his eye on the game for a while now from the bench, and anyone who plays this sport voluntarily has to be out of their damn mind. And he's _really _starting to hate the gear that comes along with it. He gets tired enough just scrapping in his school uniform; doing it in a load of stiff, clacking plastic armor is just plain hellish.

He, Koji, and Toga are all hanging out on the bench (hanging out in this instance meaning sleeping, reading Jump, and feeling generally furious with the world in general) when the fatty comes jogging over and motions for them to stand up and come along.

They don't, at first. Then _someone_ (one guess who) fires a round of bullets into the sky and shouts, "_F—king Hah-hah Brothers! Photos!"_

"We're not _brothers_," grumbles Kazuki.

They get up.

"F—king Brothers, go on the second hut!" shouts the blonde, foul-mouthed bastard. "Play clock's winding down, F—king Fatass! You going to give them a rundown in twenty seconds or do I have to call a time out?!"

Kazuki wonders why this damn game has to use so much English. _Hatto, Kuattabakku, Tacchidaun… _(He doesn't give a shit whether it's an American sport-they couldn't bother to translate the terms?)

"I'll explain it!" says the fatty hurriedly, and gestures again to the three reluctant recruits. "Come on over here, guys! I'm Kurita Ryokan, pleased to meet you, again, I mean, sorry about Hiruma, he just really likes playing football! 'Kay, we're on offense now, so you stand like this, see?"

They sidle awkwardly over to observe.

"You look like a dumbass," says Koji.

"I was in the middle of Naruto," says Toga.

Kazuki says nothing, but no way in hell he's—

"Ten seconds! _PHOTOS!_"

One hand on the ground, the other on your leg. Got it. Kazuki hunkers down next to the fatass, glaring at the bastard in front of him. He's pretty sure he's seen that face before, possibly on the heavy end of a baseball bat.

Kazuki sneers. The Zokugaku player scowls back.

"Get ready after Hiruma says 'set', then go after he says the number of 'hut's he said he told you before!" says Kurita, and the three delinquents share a look that means, _Do you remember how many? I don't remember how many._

In the end, it doesn't matter because the Zokugaku bastards across from them don't seem to care much about playing by the rules either. And Kazuki is just fine outside of the rules.

Still, in between "plays" (more English), the fatass keeps badgering them—_keep your hips low, that leg back, lean forward, push with your legs, put your hands in his armpits! Head up!_

Kazuki tries, in a kind of half-assed way, to heed these directions. But the more parts of his body he tries to pay attention to, the less it seems to work. And the Zokugaku guys are running all over them now, which only makes it worse, because Kazuki hates losing. He especially hates losing at something he didn't want to do in the first place, which basically sums up his life.

He hates the fat freak.

He hates this red jersey.

He hates this sport.

A lot has happened by the time they play the Aliens. When Kazuki crouches down before they start the sweep, he's suddenly surprised by how natural the stance feels now. After a thousand reps in practice, his body finally remembers on its own—_head up, hips low, this is offense, this is defense, wait for the snap count—_

And when everyone collides for a group chest bump after Sena's first touchdown, Kazuki knows on a subconscious level that this is a family. It's a family he' still getting used to, but they accept him. And more importantly, they accept Koji and Toga—Kazuki barely notices the crowd chanting his own name when there are voices acknowledging his brothers on the line.

(No, they're not related. But by now they can't deny they're brothers.)

The first time he brings the jersey home, it's pouring rain. Sometime before the start of the Fall Tournament, a freak shower turns into the mother of all thunderstorms…just in time for evening practice.

You haven't pushed a blocking sled until you've pushed it in the rain. It's not nearly as heavy as the damn truck, but at least the American highway didn't turn to thick, clinging mud under rainfall. By the time they finish, Kazuki barely has the energy to lift his shoulder pads over his head, let alone change into his school uniform. He wears his jersey and sweatpants instead, because the uniform would only get soaked, even with an umbrella.

The umbrella is actually a high school relic of his father's, with three broken spokes and a catch that usually refuses to open without some degree of violence. Kazuki waits until Koji and Toga have staggered off in the direction of their own houses to open the beastly device, purely because he hates to be seen with anything belonging to his old man.

Even climbing the stairs makes his thighs burn, and the pain and fatigue combined are so distracting that Kazuki forgets how late it is.

Which is to say, he forgets when the old man comes home from work.

Juumonji Erito actually opens the door before Kazuki can even reach for the doorknob, and their eyes meet with the usual animosity.

"…What are you wearing?"

"None of your business," says Kazuki curtly, dropping the umbrella carelessly on the concrete of the porch—_don't need you, don't need your old things, get off my case._

"You're filthy and soaking... I know better than to ask what you were doing by now. Change into something else before you leave the mud room."

"The hell I'm changing there."

"You'll do as I tell you. And throw that shirt in the trash, too. I can't even tell what color it's supposed to be."

"Red," says Kazuki.

"It's brown," says Erito.

"I'm going to wash it," says Kazuki, with maybe a little bit more ire than is warranted by such a petty argument. "Maybe you can get your damn glasses fixed while I'm doing that, huh? It's _red_."

And that's it. The longest conversation they've had in two months. Kazuki leaves a trail of mud and dripped water all the way up the stairs and into the bathroom, where he digs his gloves and pants out of his bag as well. He fills the bathtub halfway and scrubs at them with a hand towel and the unscented bath soap his father buys. Most of the grime comes off, staining the plastic around the drain with murky water. Equipment cleanliness is Anezaki's area of expertise, but he's so damn angry right now that he doesn't care. She works hard enough as it is.

He scrapes and rinses and twists for as long as the furious monologue in his head continues.

_What would you know? Have you even noticed how much better my grades have gotten since the Summer? How I don't smell like cigarettes anymore? I'll bet you haven't. But if you had, I'll bet you wouldn't know why._

_I'll bet you wouldn't know how much this jersey has to do with it._

He doesn't remember hanging up his gear on the curtain rod, but when he wakes up at two in the morning on the bathroom floor, it's because his still-damp jersey has slipped off the bar and onto his head. Kazuki stuffs the gloves and pants back into his duffel bag, but when he falls ungracefully onto his futon, that damned red jersey is still over one arm.


	2. Hiruma: Fragments

Fragments—Hiruma never would have admitted it, not even to himself, but there was a tiny part of him that thought Seibu might win. And maybe even rooted for them.

A/N: I re-read Seibu's game against Hakushuu the other day and...I dunno, Hiruma's face just made me want to write this. Purely speculative, introspective and ramble-y.

* * *

If you had asked, Hiruma would have said he neither doubted nor believed in the Kid's strategy for dealing with Gaou; he wasn't the type to deal with such abstract concepts.

But damn if he wasn't impressed by it.

Hiruma identified with the Kid, whether he felt like admitting it or not. They were both wily, ambitious bastards with matching idioms (offense, offense, offense!). The biggest difference was that the Kid internalized all this, while Hiruma was the epitome of externalization (but only when tactically beneficial). They both had father problems, although where Kid's father had expected too much, Hiruma's had expected too little. The last word on the subject was that, in the Kid's place, Hiruma would have dealt with Gaou in exactly the same way.

But Hiruma wasn't the Kid. Hiruma didn't have the Quick-draw; he had the damn fatass, who would have to be totally prepared if Seibu lost here.

There it was—_if_, not _when_.

It was because of the odds, he told himself, watching the Kid stare down death every damn play. With this strategy, the Gunmen had a decent 40% chance at victory, even with Gaou's record for sacks. That was pretty damn good, and that was why he his grin widened every time Seibu gained yardage. Yeah, he was a sucker for gutsy, impossible plays.

And maybe he thought they might win. Just watching their offense, you could believe it was possible. Maybe the Kid would pull it off—

No, he was impartial. He needed to plan for either outcome, start constructing formations to counter every strategy he saw on the field today.

…Maybe he wanted Seibu to win. Maybe he didn't want to risk the chance (the high percentage, actually) that Gaou would—

The Kid went tumbling across the field.

Hiruma's grin dropped, but only a little, settling into a fixed, grim smile while the gears in his brain whirred at break-neck speed. _Assessment; Complete simple fracture of the humerus, almost compound. Slight cranial damage; looks like more because wounds to the head bleed prolifically. _

_That could be me._

He approved of Kaitani Riku's "eight onside kicks" plan, but the numbers were dwindling to decimals now and the rest of the team was losing spirit too fast.

Looking at their stunned faces, Hiruma was faintly surprised to find himself thinking, _That wouldn't be us._

The thought allowed him to smother the sinking feeling in his chest as he watched the Gunmen fall to the Dinosaurs' brutality; Seibu may have lost, but Deimon wouldn't. And if he was the next quarterback to be hauled off the field on a stretcher, you could be sure as hell the Devilbats wouldn't lose their spirit. The damn kids knew better by now.

But leaving the stadium, he fired off one round from his M16 assault rifle, just for the team that didn't make it.

For the team he hadn't been rooting for.


	3. Monta: Running on Fumes

Running on Fumes-By the end of the Oujo game, Monta is fighting to stay conscious.

A/N: I love Monta. Monta is a MAN. He is part of the Man Trio with Juumonji and Musashi. No, seriously, they're the ones who always seem to give all the manly advice! And as much as I love Hiruma too, and as much as acknowledge his masculinity, he's not part of the Man Trio because of his unconventional code of morals. Monta, Juumonji, and Musashi have this kind of shared creed that...

...Okay, not ranting. Okay. This is Tumblr material. Hope you enjoy the new ramble-y one shot! Might actually post something with a plot soon!

* * *

Monta couldn't keep his eyes open. He couldn't breathe. Hell, he could barely keep the ball in his arms. The field had dried up a bit, but the damage was done; the sloppy, rain-drenched gridiron of the first half had left him half-conscious from fatigue.

_Stay awake!_

Baseball had never been like this, even when he worked himself to exhaustion. He had come home and fallen asleep on the couch before, too tired to even take off his cleats, but this was past that. This was weariness set deep in his bones, making him gasp like a drowning man.

This time, he couldn't stop. He couldn't rest. They still needed one more touchdown.

_Keep moving!_

He knew already his legs wouldn't take him past Ojo's defense. By now, even willpower wasn't enough to make them pump with their usual speed. That was something frighteningly out of the ordinary for Monta, for whom willpower had always been the go-to solution.

He lost focus for a moment when he landed, eyelids trying to fall shut without his consent—_dammit_, it just wasn't happening!

_Don't give up!_

There was a split second wherein Monta saw Ojo closing in on him and felt utter, involuntary despair.

And then he heard thudding footsteps to his left caught a blurry glimpse of a shining blue eyeshield streaking towards him. Monta didn't even think consciously about handing the ball off, and practically collapsed as it left his hands. The instant Sena took the ball, Hiruma's voice rang out, rapping out nicknames, and half of Deimon's offense slammed together in an impromptu huddle.

* * *

Monta staggered onto the shore in his filthy uniform, eyes stinging with seawater. Hiruma was still crouched in the back of the truck, remote control in hand, laughing his head off. Monta didn't know how their quarterback could still have this much energy, especially with all those beds in the back of the new Devil Bat vehicle…

He barely made it on board before collapsing onto the fresh white sheets—he was soaked with salt water and caked with mud, but cleanliness be damned. The Devil Bats had won and his job was done.

Monta finally let himself sleep.


	4. Agon: Head and Shoulders

Head and Shoulders—When everyone's looking up at you, it's the people closest to you who get sore necks.

A/N: I like Agon and Unsui's dynamic a lot, but not in a pairing kind of way. It's just really interesting to me because, like a lot of other relationships in ES21, it has great depth and complexity to it and lends itself greatly to ramble-y oneshots. I would explain why I wrote this one, but I feel like explaining a story kind of kills the point of writing it. If you want me to babble at you, let me know and we can PM it up. Or something.

* * *

Another trophy.

Another medal.

Another newspaper clipping on the wall.

Agon likes winning, and at a very early age, he realizes he's a lot better at it than everyone else. Because Agon is better at everything.

Track.

Golf.

Basketball.

Most of these sports don't last long—maybe a year or two of middle school, and then he gets bored. Unsui starts playing football first of all because he likes it, and secondly because Agon isn't interested in it. Agon knows this, and doesn't care; there are other, less obscure sports for him to dominate.

Third string.

Second string.

First string.

Agon is used to envy, even enjoys it. People _should _be envious of him, _should _want to be like him. He has effortlessly become the pinnacle of athletic perfection, and the other team is going to lose hating him.

Agon sees no reason to be modest. Modesty means lying to trash to make them feel better. The fact that he is head and shoulders above the rest of humanity shouldn't mean he has to spend his life stooping.

Even if some people are tired of looking up at him.

Classmate.

Cousin.

Brother.

He's not an idiot. He knows how much he and his brother are compared on a daily basis, how Unsui always fades into the background. But this is not Agon's fault. It's not something he has to deal with. They fight over plenty of things, but never the gaping chasm between their abilities, because there's nothing to be done about it, nothing to be said. Unsui doesn't have to be put down like the rest of the trash because he's already down. He already understands, and they both know it.

It's just the way he responds to it that pisses Agon off. Because Unsui isn't like his father, constantly approving and praising, and he isn't like other losers, clawing and biting and trying to climb higher. He is tired, resentful. And it's not that Agon has any great interest in improving his brother's self-esteem—it's not his job and anyway he wouldn't know where to start.

Agon's not going to change, but he wants Unsui to because it's so goddamn annoying to know exactly what he's thinking when Agon wins—

Again.

Again.

Again.

It's the one sour note in his little symphony of victory, the way Unsui's face freezes over and he excuses himself from the room and goes upstairs, where he can't hear their father.

_Get over it, man. Stop being so friggin' passive-aggressive and GET THE HELL OVER IT._

Apparently it isn't as easy as that. Getting over it isn't an option for Unsui, and Agon learns this in the last year of middle school when their all-too-similar faces do irrevocable damage.

Unsui wanted that scholarship badly. He'd wanted to think his moment had finally come. Agon could have told him otherwise, because he is the only one who wins (first place every time). But the problem is that even when Unsui isn't the defeated opponent, it's still a personal defeat for him. Because they're brothers.

Unsui's right—he'll never reach Agon's height above humanity, and he shouldn't bother trying. But now he wants to live in Agon's shadow forever and no one's stopping him.

Agon refuses to offer false pity. But he can hear his brother crying and he's pissed as _hell _now because this wasn't his endgame when he went out for that scholarship. He won't apologize for something that wasn't his fault; he never _asked _for talent, for godlike reflexes and speed and strength. He won't apologize for nature.

Middle school.

High school.

Year two.

Agon and Unsui's goals match up for the most part—crush trash, forge ahead, ignore lesser talents. The only real downside is the way his brother acts like a surrogate mother, yelling at him all the time—_Agon, get your gear on! Agon, practice! Agon, STOP! _

_God_. So _annoying_. The scolding, the texted reminders for practices Agon's never going to attend…

It seems like Unsui can't believe his eyes when Agon actually _does _start attending. Maybe it's not what he pictured, since he still hasn't quit nagging (_No girls in the weight room, Agon! Agon, waterfall meditation increases discipline! You have to mark any new records on your chart, Agon!_), but this is still the happiest Agon has seen his brother in months.

If Agon had really thought about it, he might have remarked that it seemed a little pathetic, even for trash. But whatever. Let Unko-chan do whatever makes him feel better, and Agon will prepare to surpass any challenge awaiting him in next year's tournament.

And for a while, this consumes his whole being; _kill Deimon, kill Eyeshield, kill to get that three million dollars… _

But something happens in America. Something clicks. He's watching that Chameleon loser get back on his feet—

Again.

Again.

Again.

-and suddenly that rage is back, that pure fury he never bothered to put into words because what Unsui does is his own business. Not Agon's fault. Not his problem.

He thinks maybe Unko-chan has things he could be doing _other _than perfecting the art of the ultimate support player, like maybe doing the Dragonfly instead of making Agon run the play with his arch-nemesis, and hey, doesn't Unko-chan actually _like _football, because if so

_WHY ISN'T HE ON THE GODDAMN GRIDIRON._

Agon doesn't have time to yell at him, doesn't know whether it would make a difference. But he knows Unsui is watching—every play, every pass, every run. So he takes off the wig and gives his brother a good long look at…

…a mirror.

Kongo Agon didn't start this; it isn't his fault. But he's sure as hell going to finish it.

_Get over it._

_Stop being so passive-aggressive._

_GET OVER IT._

He didn't expect much from it, though he's pleased for a while to notice that Unsui has stopped trying to be his moral compass off the field. Then it turns out that "unruly behavior" can lead to suspension when no one's taking responsibility for you. And goddammit he will _not _be pulled out of Kantou, because he has to kick Devilbat ass. And Unsui won't run the plays Agon wants anymore, the dumbass, so they all do what his loser brother says and win with solid, boring leads.

But sometimes, against teams that present special cases, they go with the Flying Dragon and it's so goddamn badass that Agon has to laugh.

Because sometimes, when you're head and shoulders above humanity, you have to pick someone up by the back of the shirt so you can see eye-to-eye.

College.

Saikyo.

Enma.

(And sometimes, when losers stand on each other's shoulders, they can reach unexpected heights.)


	5. Marco: A Beautiful Death

A Beautiful Death-Women have love, men have strength, Maruko Reiji has...

A/N: Marco and Maria break my heart. I can't imagine them getting back together _just like that _after the game against Deimon-I think it would be far more complicated than that. Which is where this story came from.

* * *

Maria arrives at the Christmas party in black.

Marco swallows hard at the sight of her, and thinks a little deliriously that the fear he felt watching Kobayakawa Sena run straight at him was nothing compared to this. He's not sure what he was thinking when he invited her, and he certainly doesn't know why she accepted. The Dinosaurs only lost to the Devil Bats eight days ago; his ribs are still bruised; he _still _wakes up with unshed tears of frustration prickling his eyes.

And it was sometime this month, one year ago, that they stood in a foot of snow and Marco made a promise he couldn't keep.

It must have been temporary insanity that made him invite her to his family's annual Christmas party. It's a sophisticated, expensive, very Italian event where most of the guests are old business friends of his parents. And Maria strides into this throng of Mafiosi and fashionistas like a beautiful death. Perhaps it's just her natural severity, but Marco likes to imagine that the wake of silence she leaves behind her has a more supernatural source—a sort of glamour that both entrances and petrifies.

It's probably her eyes, he decides, trying valiantly to focus on them (a bead of sweat trickles down his neck). He'd never seen such intense eyes before he met her, and hasn't since.

(Only once has he seen them waver.)

"Merry Christmas, Maria," he says, with a nod and an approximation of a suave smile. "It's a bit of a surprise to see you here, I'd say."

She nods. Once. Marco swallows again and wonders if he should mention her clothes—how her attitude turns the sensibility of black flats into sexiness, or the contrast her skin makes against the silk of her dress, or how he wants badly, in some forbidden corner of his mind, to unravel the soft black scarf concealing her throat and neckline.

In the end, he can't say anything at all. Certainly, something happened in that locker room—something between them changed. Marco isn't sure exactly what that thing was, but he knows it's not enough to justify flirting.

They are putting something back together again, piece by piece, from the bottom up.

"Your guests are staring," says Maria, and answers the curious gazes of a couple of Italian aunts with a pointed look of her own. Roberta and Selena turn back to their own conversation, looking somewhat chastised.

"They're waiting to see whether we act like a couple," says Marco, forcing his smile not to falter and fiddling compulsively behind his back with one of his cufflinks (_Wearing the Armani was a bad choice, I'd say—think of the sweat stains on your jacket…)_

"Ah." Maria leaves it at that so that, as usual, he has no idea what she's thinking.

"They'll probably start dancing soon," he observes, in what hopefully sounds like a casual voice. "A couple of the other boys here will ask you onto the floor, I'd say."

"Will you aim to win again next year?"

Marco stares at her, mouth partially open in readiness to form an answer to a different question—maybe _"Which cousin?" _or _"What dances do you think they will they play?"_

"…Yes, of course," he says after a long moment, staring out at the milling crowd of socialites rather than Maria's steady, dark eyes. "No matter what. I plan to stick to my resolution, no matter what."

Maria keeps looking at him until Marco can no longer avoid returning her gaze. He turns his head, wondering anxiously whether the sad little flicker of hope in his chest is externally visible. But as soon as they're face-to-face, Maria looks away. Well, that's to be expected. Marco lets his eyelids slowly drop.

Another piece falls out of place.

"I like a man who stays true to his word," she says, and Marco almost gives himself whiplash trying to catch a glimpse of her face. His heartbeat races; his suit is suddenly unendurably stifling in the heat and he tries to loosen his tie inconspicuously even as he stares at her. Maria is still a picture of solemnity, her head turned up slightly as though she's inspecting the chandelier. (Another reason he almost hoped she wouldn't come: his house is embarrassingly upper-class. Any other visitor would be an entirely different matter, but shows of power don't impress Maria.)

"…High praise, coming from you," he manages, testing the water. He wants to believe he doesn't imagine the sad little smile briefly crossing her face or the way she seems to lean ever-so-slightly towards him. But even if he's not imagining these things, there's still nothing to be done about them. Gone are the days when he could lean over and say something almost European in its audacity to make her laugh (grudgingly) and let him steal a kiss. After hearing her call him a true football player, he can't bring himself to regret using the methods he did… But the memory of breaking whatever it was that they had will never fail to cause him pain.

Maybe she's thinking about the same thing, maybe not. Marco can follow a football with impeccable accuracy, but when it comes to human emotions he's basically useless.

He keeps smiling and pulling at his tie, the fingers of his other hand twisting the sleeve of his coat to reach his left cufflink. Aah, dammit, all these nervous tics never show themselves until he's two feet from his ex-girlfriend, edging around the possibility of getting back together…

"Maria, how about—"

"Excuse me, miss."

They both turn to see, as Marco expected, one of his cousins, wearing a suit only slightly more expensive than Marco's. It's Kaede from his mother's side of the family, if memory serves. A competitive young aspiring businessman. Marco gives him an uneasy smile, which Kaede ignores.

"The orchestra is about to begin playing and the conversation in this corner seems to have…waned somewhat." (Here he smiles at Marco in return, prompting a certain frustration within the Dinosaurs quarterback.) If you're not used to Western dances, that's alright. I'll be leading."

And he offers his arm.

Marco may be anxious, but he certainly won't be timid; a gentleman defends his lady of choice from unwelcome suitors. (At least…he hopes this one is unwelcome.)

He takes one of Maria's hands elegantly in his, knowing she will notice his clammy skin and uncertain grip. "Oh, but how could she ever dance with someone else when I'm here? Right, Himuro Maruko-san?"

She looks at him. Purses her lips. Marco sweats and grins and knows that she could kill his illusion of savoir-faire with a single word, and this is just as it has always been.

"…Oh, yes," she says, and Marco can definitely see the reluctant beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips. "You invited me, after all."

Kaede looks as though he's about to argue, but stops short when Marco presses an intentionally drawn-out kiss to Maria's wrist and twirls her once as though the music has already started. (He can't believe she's humoring him like this; he's going to have a nervous breakdown if this keeps up.) But she's still smiling.

When Kaede finally stalks off in an ungentlemanly sulk, Marco lets her hand slip out of his grasp and fall back to her side. And he says, "…You look beautiful, I'd say."

"Thank you," says Maria. They look at each other, silent in a crowded room while all around them _consigliere_s and seamstresses murmur that Maruko's boy seems to have landed quite the catch. So much left unsaid, so little they can say.

"When it gets a bit colder," Marco finally blurts out, aware that he's finally lost his remaining composure, "maybe we should make another snowman…Maria."

She smiles one more time but makes no promises, and that's enough for him.

When winter does finally roll around, they end up outside Tokyo Stadium the day before the Christmas Bowl, since they're in town for the game. And all the snow they had intended to use for that snowman ends up piled into the great icy Devil Bat sculpture by a mysterious gang of motorcyclists.

But that's another story.


	6. Suzuna: The Call of Duty

The Call of Duty—During the Dinosaurs game, the players aren't the only ones learning the true meaning of strength.

A/N: I think people underestimate Suzuna, her range of emotions and how much the Christmas Bowl means to her as well. Despite her constant, unrelenting perkiness, there are moments when she shows herself to be an unusually mature young woman. After Gaou breaks Hiruma's arm, we see her crying into Mamori's chest, but in the next chapter she's smiling and cheering again. I don't think this illustrates a shallow personality; quite the opposite, in fact.

* * *

Every Devil Bat had a job. The line blocked; the backs learned their routes and caught the ball; everyone had to contribute in some way to victory.

It was Suzuna's job to cheer, and even if her assets were, ahem, somewhat minimal, she would have said she did a pretty damn good job. She had that key quality, which was, in her opinion, the ability to remain staunchly exuberant in any situation.

The crowd could be disappointed, despairing, unsupportive, but it was the cheerleader's job to reverse the effects of a bad turn in the game. The cheerleaders were there to boost the spectators' morale, and in turn the crowd would root harder for their team. And so, Suzuna decided, she had to do her job and do it well.

It was hard sometimes. Though the Devil Bats had a tendency to come back from behind, this meant they necessarily ended up in that _behind _place for the majority of the game.

It had been a big, amazing roller coaster ride, but losing to Seibu…the last play of the Oujo game… In those moments, it was so hard to think of smiling and cheering again, or even staying on her feet.

But it was also Suzuna's job to watch them drop to their knees and pound the ground and scream at their loss, and she would suffer their mourning in silence…and sometimes tears. But once that time was over, she always knew what her job required of her and somewhere inside her, that little impulse to fight for others' happiness pushed her forward. And all of them, being resilient first-class athletes, were on their feet again.

It was fun. Football was fun. Cheering was fun. The whole team was fun! Even You-nii was fun.

That was the only word for it, and Suzuna was probably the first person—ever—to use it in reference to Hiruma Youichi. It wasn't that he was funny, really, just fun. Something about the way he had those pointy teeth and looked like a demonic elf and carried guns everywhere and yelled at everyone but _never actually hurt anyone. _Suzuna had a good eye for personality (except Sena's, of course—she'd always be finding out new things about Sena, which was what made _him _so fun). She knew about putting on shows, and she liked doing impressions of You-nii. It was easy, because putting on a show was his business as well.

The never exchanged more than a few words, but You-nii was like the rest of the Devil Bats—they all added a little bit to the team to make it special and different. And they all did their job too.

The Dinosaurs game was the worst. Worse even than that helpless feeling, watching the White Knights' final kickoff, because this time…

It all became real when they started carrying You-nii off the field on that stretcher. Because it wasn't just that he was hurt (how badly they didn't know yet), and it wasn't just that they'd all seen him go flying, bouncing on the gridiron. It was that he couldn't play. You-nii had played football on sand, in the rain, in typhoon-level winds, on grass and artificial turf. Nothing stopped You-nii from playing football.

The fear and sadness at that moment were physically painful. When Suzuna hugged Mamo-nee with all her strength, hiding her face from the crowd, unable to fight back the tears blurring her vision, she knew Mamo-nee could feel it too. Even the boys had to be hurting inside, but she couldn't look at them now. Not yet.

The change came when You-nii spent the last of his energy kicking Kuritan. After he was carried to the infirmary, Suzuna dried her eyes on the tissue Mamo-nee had left her. Then she straightened up, and fumbled for her compact in the little duffel bag where her everyday clothes were stored.

A cheerleader could not look as though she'd been crying.

And so, while Hiruma Youichi lay in the infirmary, pale, sweating, in pain, the rest of the team filled the gap left by his absence with unforeseen bravado. Suzuna put on her very best smile, because the crowd needed it right now, and took her place in front of the stands.

Behind her, the team came to a decision.

_Sena, please…_

And all together, the Devil Bats roared their usual war cry, louder than she'd ever heard it, almost making up for the absence of Hiruma's ear-splitting yell.

"_LET'S…KILL…THEM!"_

That was her cue.

"_OFFENSE!" _shouted Suzuna in her most commanding voice, punching one pom-pom into the air. The Deimon spectators looked like they don't know what to think; that was okay, she could tell them. Suzuna nodded to her fellow cheerleaders, who all looked about as shell-shocked as the crowd, and motioned them to follow suit. By the time Sena started the snap count, they had a good chant going.

Now was not the time to think about You-nii, or how the game would have gone if he were still in it. There was nothing to be done about the past, so Suzuna was going to carry the remaining Devil Bats to the Christmas Bowl the only way she knew how—by doing her job.


	7. Kotaro: Something Like Normal

Something Like Normal-It's too quiet inside the house, too loud inside him. Kotaro can't stay at home-not today-so he goes to the field instead.

A/N: Lots of Spiders feelings. Like, their whole team just up and left! How horrible would that be? I mean, you can play as well as you like, but everyone else has to be on board with it too, or you're doomed to fail. It's a team sport, and they just...ugh. Right, okay, if I think about this too much I get angry.

This story goes pretty fast-usually I try to pace my fics slower, but I thought I'd try a different kind of timing. I leave it in the hands of the readers.

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Kotaro opens—

-opens—

-opens the damn—

-slams his foot into the door and rattles the knob, cursing at the pain in his toes and the rain warping his vision.

It _is _the rain. It's the rain in his eyes.

The door opens in a quiet, anticlimactic way and Kotaro lets his hand fall from the cold metal of the doorknob, staring into the emptiness beyond.

_Mom…must still be at work._

He enters, closes the door behind him, and hates how quiet it is. The carpet muffles his footsteps and without the sounds of the rainstorm to blot out his thoughts… Everything inside him feels so _loud_. Kotaro wants to yell and scream some more; inside his head, there are a thousand angry thoughts jostling for attention. And when he looks around the room, even familiar, precious objects become things he wants to destroy. He extends one shaking hand towards one of his mother's favorite glass vases, knowing he could drop-kick the damn thing into a wall, murmuring—_"Not smart, not smart, not—"_

-He lets his hand fall back to his side, scuffing at the carpet with one anxious foot. He wants to _kick_ something—why didn't he go back to the field?

_Because practice was over. Because Akaba and Juri were still at school. Because there's nowhere I want to be right now, dammit-!_

He resists the urge to drop to his knees, pressing his lips together to keep them from trembling. If he falls down now, he tells himself, it'll be just like letting those treacherous bastards win. It'll be like giving up just because everyone but the kicking team—just because Ibarada—

_IBARADA. _

Kotaro's leg muscles jerk involuntarily and the coffee table crashes into the couch, one of its legs making a sharp cracking noise. He clutches his bruised shin (_Definitely not smart, dammit!_), choked profanities pouring past his lips into the silence of the house.

He has to get out of here.

He doesn't even bother to put on his jersey because it's hanging too close to the pile of discarded gear the former Spiders left in the locker room. His cleats are in there too, so he'll have to do without them.

Kotaro has to know somewhere in the back of his mind that it's dangerous to practice kicking in the rain without spikes. He's already practiced today anyway, with his usual vigor, and by all rights he should let his aching legs rest.

Right now, though, he doesn't really feel like he could sleep even if he wanted to. It's hard to think of sleeping ever again when his insides are boiling and his muscles are electrified.

People don't drop-kick field goals anymore; even Kotaro has never tried it. He drop-kicks punts, but the ball is so much easier to control when someone's standing it up for him.

But drop-kicks are faster, more violent, better for venting rage. Kotaro takes a few skipping steps, letting a football drop from his slippery fingers, and slams his foot into it with none of his usual precise grace. It's wide to the right, no good from thirty-five yards. He saw it coming, but it only makes him angrier. He tries again, hands shaking, the black cloth of his perfectly creased pants spattered with mud. This one's wide to the left, tumbling wildly through the air, and Kotaro shouts at the goalposts, at his ball, at his right foot, at Akaba and Ibarada. He keeps shouting and kicking and swearing until his voice is hoarse and his muscles are burning.

After countless bad kicks—it's been years since he missed—Kotaro staggers and lets himself fall backwards. Part of him faintly regrets getting his suit this dirty, since he's always thought of it as one of the smartest school uniforms in Tokyo. It just doesn't seem important right now, though. A few hours ago, he was angry enough that he would've broken one of his prized Elvis records without regret (he squeezes his eyes shut at the thought and thinks wearily that it's a damn good thing he got out of the house).

He's so tired.

"Hey, Kotaro…"

Kotaro keeps his eyes shut, hoping he's just imagining Juri's voice. He was angry at her too—there was no real reason for it, just seeing her walking with Akaba and having a conversation like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like anything could be normal today. Like anything is ever going to feel normal again.

"Kotaro, if you've gone and broken your neck or something, I'm gonna be really mad!"

"I'm fine," he mutters.

"What?"

Actually, he's not fine. Maybe he should rephrase his answer. "I didn't break my neck," says Kotaro, speaking up a little more. "I'm alive!"

"Then get up already! Do you know how hard it's going to be for you to get all the mud out of your clothes?"

Kotaro doesn't move, except for opening his eyes to stare bleakly at the sky. "…How are we gonna make it to the Christmas Bowl, Juri?"

"I—" She stops, and for a moment her no-nonsense demeanor vanishes—she sighs and it sounds almost like a sob. "…I don't know. I still can't believe they left. I've been…um, I've been trying to call them…"

"You probably shouldn't bother," says Kotaro, his voice almost reaching its usual volume. "Those guys aren't worth it anyway. Anyone who isn't smart enough to stay with his team…"

"But we only have the kicking team," she says softly, and Kotaro slowly closes his eyes again.

"…Yeah."

Akaba is back two days later. The rest of the team is not. Juri prevents her best friend from beating up their tight end, but just barely.

In the end, Kotaro's fury at Akaba's return is only matched by his utter astonishment at Akaba's plan for winning the Christmas Bowl…with nothing but the kick team.

"Precision onside kicks?" Kotaro stares, trying to recall ever hearing the term before and drawing a blank.

"But…I don't think Kotaro's even done an onside kick before!" says Juri, frowning. "Don't you think that's a bit risky?"

"With all due respect," says Akaba, watching Kotaro with serious red eyes, "it doesn't matter what you or I think."

Kotaro stares back, grimacing, eyes narrowed in suspicion. After a long moment of unbearable silence, he finally coughs and says loudly, "…_Fine_, we'll try it! Doesn't mean you're any smarter than you ever were, though!"

Akaba sighs—"_Fuu!"_—and pushes his glasses up his nose. "And you're still just as discordant as before."

And then they're back to Kotaro yelling and Akaba stoically taking it and Juri trying to calm them both down. Ibarada isn't there to make fun of both of them, and the practice field beyond the bench looks strangely empty in the evening light, but things might almost be back to normal.

Or what passes as normal for the Bando Spiders, anyway.


	8. Shin: Define Potential

Define Potential-Shogun brings out the best in Shin, then asks for better. Shin obliges.

A/N: I never get exactly what I want out of these. :/ I write them and they turn out as feelings rants, but with longer words. I know this is a weird take on Shin's personality, but maybe you guys (assuming I have multiple readers) will find something a little IC in there. Shin is extremely hard to write, because his worldview is so different from your average person's. And I'm still not sure I really got him right in my head. But I still hope you people(?) enjoy it!

* * *

Shin Seijuro's father was a passive man, and as far as he could tell, he saw that in his son as well. And he saw no need to change that-Seijuro was an obedient, plain little boy who did as he was told and just that. He worked just as hard as was necessary, just as his teachers had shown him in class, and finished in a timely fashion. There was no need to push him further—he was already an excellent, if not extraordinary, student.

Shin Seijuro's mother was also hard-working, an office lady with no real aspirations of promotion or greatness. She saw her son less than she should have and was always somewhat discouraged when she did—his firm, solemn hugs and quiet, utterly polite way of speaking were peculiar for a child his age. And so it wasn't that Shin Kameko avoided her son, necessarily, but that she never felt as though he had any need of her.

Seijuro said nothing of this, but it would be inaccurate to said he neither noticed nor cared. He was the kind of boy who would let the world move around him, and so when no one brought the subject up, neither did he. The thought that no one had any great interest in him was not a particularly distressing one—it was merely a fact. He wasn't suited to the rest of the kids in his class, and so they avoided him.

And for Seijuro, that was fine. His parents and teachers had never shown him otherwise.

In high school, he put his name down on a piece of paper with _American Football Club _written at the top. It was a mainly arbitrary action, perhaps somewhat facilitated by an offhand suggestion from one of the upperclassmen.

On the first day they were told to run. "Run and keep running," said the old coach, and Shin could quite distinctly sense being watched as the prospective football players pounded around the field for ten grueling laps. The whistle shrilled again after the tenth, and Shin noted gravely that this was probably a good thing, as Sakuraba looked close to vomiting. They gathered around the coach, in varying degrees of misery and sweatiness.

"Five more," said the coach, having introduced himself as Shoji Gunpei. Around Shin, the crowd thinned slightly as those unwilling to keep running vanished to "do homework" or "meet a friend". Shin was mildly surprised to see Sakuraba stay where he was, still shaking and panting.

The remaining hopefuls trudged towards the track again, but Shin was prevented from following them by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He looked back at Shoji Gunpei and was taken aback to find his gaze countered by the coach's own intense stare.

"Faster this time," said the coach.

A tiny crease appeared between Shin's eyebrows.

"…Sir." It wasn't quite a question, but it wasn't quite an affirmative either.

"I want you to really push it this time, that's what I'm saying. Make your body do more than what you feel it's capable of, you understand?"

"I…yes, sir," said Shin, and jogged after the rest of the group, trying to familiarize himself with this new concept. _More than what I feel capable of…_

Shin ran.

Five more laps would have been easy at the pace he'd used before, calculated to conserve energy and keep him in the pack. But he could tell already this was different; there was a sharp ache in his left side and under his left clavicle, his breathing had become rough, and his shirt was sticking to his back. He assessed all this, eyes fixed forward, legs pumping, and decided he could go faster without doing permanent damage to his body.

By the third lap, he passed the rest of the group, barely seeing them. (Sakuraba watched him go by with astonishment tempered by nausea, unable to equate this new Shin with his classmate acquaintance.)

By the fourth lap, Shin's limbs were burning and his lungs seemed unable to keep up with his heart, somewhat alarming developments. He understood the reasons behind his body's reaction, but middle school phys ed classes had never resulted in anything like this.

By the fifth lap, Shin could see the backs of his fellow runners, small in the distance. He wasn't gaining, as he would have if he were fresh, and as he neared the end of the last lap, they actually seemed to draw away.

Shin realized he was slowing down, and tried to push forward again. His calves threatened to cramp and he took the warning seriously, reaching the starting point at a heavy jog. Shoji Gunpei was waiting there, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

Shin waited for the usual mundane praise that accompanied an imperative followed—"good job", "well done", "as expected".

"You've got potential," said Shoji slowly. And that was all. He beckoned the little one forward, and she offered a tray of water bottles to Shin. He had to lean down to take one, but for a boy who had never worked quite hard enough to be dehydrated, it was remarkable how good that water tasted.

Shin sat down and drank and waited for the rest to finish their last lap.

"_You've got potential."_

What did that mean, precisely? Potential: promise, room to grow, a likelihood to succeed in the future with a certain amount of effort.

Shin considered the implications and came to the unexpected conclusion that the man called Shogun expected more of him than this. More than he could do at his best right now. Better than his best…

It was a soft, quiet, unnoticed moment, but the world opened up for Shin Seijuro then; his old life cracked open like an eggshell and infinity was visible beyond. To reach a new "best", and strive to become even better than that, to keep pursuing something more, these were new, strange thoughts

When Sakuraba collapsed next to him, Shin was staring, wide-eyed, at the sky as though he'd only just realized it was blue.

Shin Seijuro was an only child with disinterested parents. The loyalty he felt towards the White Knights was unexpected; it crept up on him slowly during skirmishes and late-night practices. The ones who stayed, the ones who gave it their all, they were the ones Shin felt connected to.

It was a peculiar feeling, connection. Being one small part of a whole. Shin had never striven for individuality, but neither had he ever been really accepted into a group. Teamwork was a strange concept at first—the idea that any one person's failure could bring everyone down, that the whole team made the play no matter who was carrying the ball.

He picked up football fast, however, understood the necessity of working together, and kept pushing himself forward. And for the first time, he could feel the people around him doing the same. It was as though he had been walking in a different direction as the rest of the world, and then suddenly found himself in the company of a group headed his way.

Shin would not have used the sentimental designation of brotherhood for this feeling, having never had brothers. He didn't understand his team to be a family because he knew they weren't related by blood—Shogun wasn't his father, and Ootowara wasn't his brother. Perhaps part of him knew that they were the closest he had ever come to having these things, but he wouldn't have used those words.

He _did _understand them as a team, however, as irreplaceable companions reaching for the same goal. Perhaps "home" would have been an acceptable word.

And his gratitude towards Shogun was unparalleled by any similar feeling he'd had in the past. With every criticism, every repetition of "again", Shogun proved himself a man who believed in his boys. The brave souls who stayed with him to the end were just returning a favor. And sometimes, for effort beyond the call of duty, those few might hear "good job, kid" or "nice play" or "keep it up".

And these were the best things to hear, even when Shogun followed them up with a list of things you did wrong.

Football became Shin Seijuro's sport because of Shoji Gunpei, and the team became the place where Shin belonged.


End file.
